


no man's land

by ninemelodies



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Ghost Noctis, M/M, Reincarnation AU, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 02:09:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17336687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemelodies/pseuds/ninemelodies
Summary: Prompto gets flashes of a too hot car, baking in the heat of the sun. He remembers creaky motel beds and a snore like a chainsaw. Oceans, mountains, the feel of a camera that is not his beneath his fingers, and the too tight squeeze of a wrist band covering his biggest secret. Auburn hair, eyes that shined with too much malice and knowledge, the crushing feeling of realizing that even with a gun in his hand and magic at his back, he’s still powerless. “It didn’t...work out that way though, did it?”





	no man's land

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earlgrey_milktea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgrey_milktea/gifts).



> this is inspired by the song The Green Fields of France by Dropkick Murphys

Prompto doesn’t mean to trip over a grave. He’s running blind, doing his best to keep the tree branches from smacking him in the face. They slow him down some, but not enough to get him caught by the guard behind him. He hears a faint damn you as the footsteps fade out. That’s good, though Prompto knows he hasn’t lost the guard yet, he also knows that he can’t risk getting put in jail for trespassing, again.

Luckily, the forest seems to be thinning, and running is becoming easier. His camera bounces roughly against his chest, and Prompto takes advantage of the lack of trees to readjust it. He cites this as the reason he didn’t see the sword sticking out of the ground, nor the small stone set in front of it. 

The toe of his sneaker catches the blade of the sword, causing him to turn around and stumble into the stone. He goes down backwards, camera clutched tightly in his hand as his arms cartwheel to try and prevent his inevitable connection with the hard ground. Prompto lies there for a view minutes, staring at the sky and struggling to get air back into his lungs. When he can finally breathe again, he groans and rolls over onto his hands and knees. He reaches for his camera, but his fingers just grasp the soft fabric of his shirt.

He scrambles up, praying to whatever gods might be listening that his camera came out unscathed. It wasn’t a cheap model, and he had saved for years to be able to afford it. If it broke, Prompto would be extremely upset. A quick survey of the ground brings up nothing, and Prompto allows himself a brief moment of panic before something glints at the edge of his vision. 

It’s his camera, dangling off the very sword that he had tripped over. “Thank Shiva!” He rushes over, and quickly checks his camera over. It still works properly, and the screen isn’t scratched, though it is covered in mud where it had made contact with the ground. Prompto’s hand stills from where he’s wiping off his camera. 

If his camera had been caught on the edge of the sword, why was it covered in mud? And why did Prompto clearly remember having it in his hand when he went down?

“Pretty sure Shiva didn’t have anything to do with saving your camera, Prom.” A voice behind him whispers. 

But when Prompto turns around, there’s no one there. He tells himself it’s just the wind (nevermind the fact that the trees are still and eerily quiet) and shrugs off his unease.   
He ignores the way the back of his neck prickles as he bends down to get a better look at what he tripped over. The sword is askew, so Prompto takes the time to straighten it. As he’s doing so, he uses the edge of his sleeve to clean off a bit of the blade. Underneath all the grime, the blade still shines brightly. 

Prompto’s thanking his luck in landing a job at the Insomnian Museum of History because he recognizes this metal. He’s seen it on guns and swords that belonged to royalty and high ranking generals from before the Daemon Wars and the Great Night. This sword is old, pushing 150 years, and yet still looks sharp enough to kill. The handle is bulky, and looks like it was created out of pieces of machinery. Prompto trails his fingers over it, trying to think of what to call his newest discovery so he can present it to the museum.

“Machine blade?” For some reason, that name doesn’t seem right on his tongue. Prompto’s seen countless blades and other weapons, but for some reason, this particular one stirs a feeling in his heart. Something thick and bitter and melancholy. Prompto can’t explain it, but he knows this sword. His sleeve snags on the edge of one of the machinery pieces, and suddenly Prompto is hit with the odd feeling that he’s seen something similar in one of the cars his sister, Cindy, loves to work on. He swallows past the lump in his throat and tries again. “Blade….Engine...blade?” And yeah, that name seems right. 

His feeling of unease growing, Prompto moves down to look at the small stone. It’s unreadable with all the plants and dirt covering it, but when Prompto cleans the stone off it reads ‘Noct’ and there are two years underneath that. It’s a grave. He’s been kneeling in the mud of someone’s grave this entire time. Even worse, he tripped over this person’s gravestone! Slowly, so as not to the disturb the dirt under him any more than he already has Prompto shuffles to the side of the grave. 

He traces over the years again and does a quick calculation in his head. Whoever this was, they died young. 20 years old, the same age Prompto was now. Sadness and anger crawl their way up Prompto’s throat like bile. The sadness he understands, but where was the anger coming from? Instead of addressing it, he shoves the feeling to the side and instead focuses on the sadness.

“You died young, huh Noct?” Prompto whispers as he pulls his camera out and snaps pictures of the grave and sword he’s kneeling beside. 

There’s a deep exhale somewhere in the vicinity of Prompto’s left shoulder. “Mentally, yes. Physically, I died when I was thirty.” 

Prompto neck cracks loudly with the force at which he whips around to stare at the man kneeling next to him. For the second time that day, Prompto shrieks and goes toppling over backwards. This time he keeps his grip on his camera. He blinks once, twice, eyes wide as he tries to process the sight in front of him. 

Messy black hair frames a pale face, and midnight blue eyes are wide with concern. “Prom? You okay?” 

Prompto can’t unstick his tongue to cobble together an answer. (He’s too busy dealing with the realization that a) this man is insanely gorgeous and b) faintly see-through.) 

At his silence, the other man sighs and looks away. “I guess it was a long shot that you’d be able to see me.” His eyes slide back to Prompto’s face, and they’re searching for something. “You probably don’t even remember me.” 

It’s only when the man stands to leave that Prompto can finally unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Wait!” 

The man eyes widen with surprise, and he searches Prompto’s face again. “Prompto?” He questions. 

“Noct….is.” And Prompto wish he could explain where the second half of that name came from, or why it felt so right to say it. “Noctis!” He scrambles up and reaches forwards to touch Noctis’s face, just to prove to himself that the person in front of him is actually there and not just a hallucination caused by a concussion. His fingers go through Noctis’s cheek and Prompto has to bite back a gasp at the cold. Somehow, Prompto already knows what Noctis’s face would’ve felt like if…

Noctis, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch, but his eyes darken and the corners of his mouth dip into the barest hints of a frown. “I’m dead, Prom.” He reaches up to cup Prompto’s hand, which still lingers near his face. Prompto has to repress the urge to shiver. “I have been for a very long time.” 

And there’s the elephant in the room that Prompto really hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. He’s talking to a ghost. A ghost that he recognizes more and more with each passing second. A ghost that he knows things about that he shouldn’t. “Why do I...know you? Why do you know me?” 

“You were my best friend.” 

“But that can’t be right.” Prompto’s voice rises in frustration. “I was born 20 years ago, and if that sword is anything to go by, you’ve been dead for almost 150 years! There is no way I could know that you love to fish or that car rides make you sleepy and that you miss your father more than you would ever tell me!” 

“I…” Noctis opens his mouth, and then closes it. “We became friends in high school. When I was 20, I was told that I would marry Luna, and so you, me, Ignis, and Gladio set out on a roadtrip to meet her in Altissia.” 

Prompto gets flashes of a too hot car, baking in the heat of the sun. He remembers creaky motel beds and a snore like a chainsaw. Oceans, mountains, the feel of a camera that is not his beneath his fingers, and the too tight squeeze of a wrist band covering his biggest secret. Auburn hair, eyes that shined with too much malice and knowledge, the crushing feeling of realizing that even with a gun in his hand and magic at his back, he’s still powerless. “It didn’t...work out that way though, did it?” 

Noctis shakes his head no. “Ardyn intercepted us in Galdin Quay and things just went downhill from there. Insomnia fell, my dad….” Noctis pauses and takes a deep breath before he can continue. “We ended up travelling all over Lucis, it was simultaneously the most fun I’ve ever had and the most danger I’ve ever been in. I forged a covenant with several gods.” 

Shaking ground and a cloying fear that Noctis was never going to come out of that pit alive. The smell of ozone and hair that was flat and damp from the rain.

“But eventually, we did make it to Altissia.”

“Leviathan,” Prompto breathes, and his memories shift. There’s water and rubble and a white dress stained with red. Blind eyes staring at him and the urge to scream as tears of frustration prick the edges of his lashes. He blinks them away as a new memory surfaces. The feeling of Noctis’s arm pressing into his wide pipe, eyes distorted in anger and mouth twisted into a snarl that Prompto has never seen before and never wants to see again. Air whistling through his hair and a bruise forming on his shoulder from the force of Noctis’s shove. Snow and cold and the burning sensation as his fingers succumb to frostbite in the freezing wasteland caused by Niflheim’s own quest for power. “You pushed me off the train….” Noctis’s voice twisted in anguish as he calls Prompto’s name, then the relief as he tells Prompto that yes, of course he was worried. “But then you rescued me.” The promise to be with Noctis forever. “And then you vanished into the crystal and you came back and then you left again. How am I supposed to be at your side when you keep going to places I can’t follow?” Prompto’s not proud of the way his voice cracks. 

But it’s okay, because when Noctis speaks again his voice is thick with anguish. “I’m so sorry, Prom.” He reaches forward like he wants to wipe away the tears that have started rolling down Prompto’s face, but he freezes with his fingers inches from Prompto’s cheek. Noctis swallows and then lowers his hand. “I didn’t get the chance to tell you then, and I’m not going to waste it now, but I love you Prompto, I always have.” 

Prompto’s breath hitches and he surges forward to wrap his arms around Noctis’s waist. “Idiot! You’re an idiot!” He buries his face in Noctis’s shirt and takes a shuddering breath. “I love you too, then and now.” It’s only when Prompto looks up, intent on pressing a kiss to Noctis’s forehead that he realizes that Noctis is solid and warm. He’s holding Noctis and not passing through him. Prompto pulls back in shock, wide eyes locking with Noctis’s. “I guess the god’s decided to give you a second chance.” 

Noctis can only nod dumbly in response, too wrapped up in being alive to think about it. As it is, Prompto is content to stand in the clearing, arms wrapped around Noctis and face pressed into his shoulder. But eventually, a thought skitters across his mind. 

“Hey, Noct?” The man in question hums in response. “D’ya think if we dug up your grave we’d find your bones or nah?” 

Noctis smacks him on the shoulder and Prompto’s laughter rings through the air around them.

**Author's Note:**

> no beta we die like men. also i wrote this in like three hours at ass o'clock so i hope you enjoyed it!!!   
> special thanks to bean for always putting up with my fic ramblings at butt o'clock  
> find me on twitter and tumblr @ninemelodies


End file.
